


A Crippling Fear of Butterflies

by Nate (mcluvin)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-23
Updated: 2011-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:12:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcluvin/pseuds/Nate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9640.html?thread=46168488#t46168488">this</a> prompt on sherlockbbc_fic. (WARNING: original prompt contains spoilers.)</p><p><i>"John in physical therapy after getting shot, the stereotypical tv drama physical therapy patient: frustrated and angry with his body for being unable to perform the simplest of tasks... to the point where his therapist sends for their colleague, Sherlock Holmes. His way of working is that if he can't motivate them, he'll bully and annoy them into performing the exercises without even realizing it."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Crippling Fear of Butterflies

John's eyes shot open at exactly 4:57 am.

It almost felt like routine. Most every morning he woke to fast breathing, sheets stuck to him with sweat, and muscles tensed in some mixture of excitement and fear.

He'd pull out his computer and think about writing, but usually he ended up puttering around on the internet or watching horrible programs until it was time for bed. Today, however, he had physical therapy.

"Now lean forward and swing your arm. Relax your neck."

The physical therapist was young--late 20s, maybe--and almost unbearably encouraging. He was the kind of person that pre-war John might have been friends with.

"Leg still bothering you? Let's have a look."

He rolled up John's pyjama trousers and held the leg out, fingers pressing and probing around the joint.

"Seems fine to me."

John seldom spoke during these sessions, but it didn't seem to deter his therapist any. He leaned against the doorway and sighed after they'd finished.

"John, you're going to have to get over this some time. You can use your cane. You can go out. I mean, even just showering and changing into some nice clothes could help. You won't get any better if you don't try."

"My shoulder. Getting dressed is difficult." His voice came out hoarse and he tried to remember when he'd last spoken aloud. Wednesday?

"Your shoulder is almost entirely healed, John."

"Well you can't very well know how my arm is, can you? I'm the one who has to live with it!"

John only realized how loudly he'd yelled in the complete silence afterward.

"I suppose I can't." The therapist sounded almost deflated and John felt an odd mixture of pride and hopelessness at cracking his peppy armor.

He walked out and John didn't bother calling out to stop him.

\---

Three days later, on Thursday, John decided to take a shower.

He managed to talk his neighbor out of her hysterics to drive him to the hospital rather than calling an ambulance.

"What if you've broken something? Are you sure it's good for you to be walking? Mr. Watson, be careful!"

He wondered how old he must seem, for her to call him "Mr. Watson."

"Sarah, could you do me a favor and shut up? I've been shot in war, so I think I can handle a fall. It's _Doctor_ Watson, by the way, and after medical school and the army, I think I damn well know what I should and shouldn't do. I need a ride, not the Inquisition."

She didn't say another word.

\---

"Back already, John?"

Most everyone at the hospital was insufferable, but Nurse Hudson was the least so.

"I missed the wonderful food." His voice came out a bit surlier than he'd expected, and the joke was lost.

She didn't seem to notice.

"How are your pain medications, dear?"

Not strong enough. "Fine."

She finished checking his vitals per standard procedure and patted his arm.

He resisted the urge to pull away from her.

"Why don't I make you a cuppa? You look like you need one. I'll be right back; you just rest your leg."

“DAMN MY LEG.”

Apologies stammered out before he thought to make them. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing, and now all of this..."

She barely seemed shaken. "I understand, dear. I've got a hip." John didn't know about all the times she'd overheard him yelling at orderlies.

He didn't know that she'd been the one to comfort the new orderly he'd made cry on their first day.

He swallowed the temptation to yell again. "A cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you."

"Now just this once. I'm your nurse, not your housekeeper." John stared at the wall, but he still felt her kind smile as she started to walk out.

"Couple of biscuits, too, if you’ve got ‘em." He kept his eyes on the wall.

“Not your housekeeper.”

\---

After John threw his food tray, they called in a psychologist.

She was calm, patient, and completely unimpressed by John's attempts at civility.

"John, you have an anger issue."

He rubbed his temples and kept his voice soft and firm. "I'm sick of everyone bloody telling me what I have or haven't and what I can and can't do. I know what my problems are, and I don't need your opinions."

"You're taking your frustrations with your body out on those around you."

"I am irritated by everyone's insistence on treating me like a complete invalid." His voice grew a bit louder, and a bit harder around the edges.

She didn't ask any more questions, and after a moment of silence said, "I'd like you to meet someone. I'll bring him 'round tomorrow."

John continued to grind his teeth long after she'd left.

\---

The next day, John awoke from an afternoon nap to a man hovering over him.

"Hi?" He was too groggy to be irritated just yet, but an attempt at stretching his legs fixed that. He felt his lip curl and fought to suppress it as he sat up.

"Fascinating." The man continued to stare at him, barely blinking. It was less than comfortable.

"Sorry, but who are you?" He bit back expletives. The last thing he wanted was to lose his head and run the gauntlet of doctors and psychoanalysis again.

It took a while for the words to register, and the interloper's eyes slowly shifted from looking through John to looking at him.

"Sherlock Holmes." He extended a hand, and flashed a smile that John didn't trust.

"And you are in my room because..." John itched to stand and get farther away. His bad leg was stiff, daring him to try.

"You aren't injured."

John's voice rose to a yell of its own accord. "So I suppose I'm just in hospital unable to walk for giggles, then?"

"Basically." John might have imagined the amusement in his voice.

"What kind of doctor are you? Get out of my room." John heard his teeth snap together. He wouldn't have any molars left if the world kept throwing this shit at him. His hand clenched into a preparatory fist in the sheets.

"I'm not a doctor. I'm a consulting therapist. You know, spending all day in a bed like yours doesn't help you at all."

John's confusion dulled his irritation just enough to make physical violence avoidable. "You’re a what? What does that even mean?"

"I'm a consulting therapist. It means that when the psychologists are out of their depth--which is almost always--they call me. You should buy better quality pillows. A new mattress might help, while you're at it. I'd even try some decoration to brighten up all that neutral. White walls are so depressing."

"I'm in hospital; I can't control-- Are you talking about my flat?"

"No, I'm talking about floral arrangements. Really, John, your room is atrocious."

A headache began to bloom above his right ear. "I don't know who you are, or how you got in my flat, but please do me a favor and leave me alone. I can't walk and I can barely lift my arm, and I have a side full of bruises and I'd just like you to leave now."

Sherlock sighed and pulled out his phone. The soft tattoo of the buttons mixed with his voice in an odd sort of coordination. "The bruises are the only thing actually wrong with you. They told me you were a bit fierier than this. I didn’t come here for whinging.”

John sat up straighter in his bed. His headache throbbed as it grew steadily stronger, and every muscle in his body was tensed. His voice was low, sharp and icy. “Get. Out.”

“Ah. Now that’s a bit better. I was hoping for some yelling, though, maybe throwing things. A bit of excitement.” His eyes left his phone for a moment to gleam boldly at John before he snapped it shut and slid it back into his pocket. John put all the venom he’d built up in the past few months into his glare.

Sherlock’s smug expression didn’t waver, but he took a half step back, just out of John’s punching range. “Same time tomorrow, then?” He winked and swept out of the door.

John took a breath and began to relax his hands when Sherlock’s head popped back in. “And do try to stop feeling so sorry for yourself all the time. You can’t always be a victim, you know.”

John stared at the space where Sherlock’s head had been long after he’d gone. His fists stayed clenched.

\---

Being in hospital was what made him so testy. He was sure of it.

John told himself this as Nurse Hudson wheeled him to the cab the next day.

Having to walk probably would have set him off, so he was grateful for the wheelchair. It allowed him to be Nice, Quiet Unassuming John. It let him feel like he hadn't changed.

It was hard to pretend with the looks he got from the hospital staff as he was wheeled down the hallway. He wondered if Nurse Hudson had taken the task of escorting him because she wanted to, or because no one else would. She was too experienced to be given such menial tasks, so it had to be either choice or process of elimination.

After helping him into the cab, she slid a piece of paper into his pocket, patting it.

"There's my number. You give me a ring." She smiled, and a bit of sympathy leaked through to shine in her eyes. "You can come 'round for tea when I have a day off. I don't want you laying about anymore. That'll end you up in here again."

John should have resented her pity, but couldn't. Instead, he smiled back and pretended that he wouldn't let the number drift to the bottom of a pile of papers somewhere, forgotten until it was too late to attempt contact.

He didn't look back when the cab drove away.

\---

When he got home, he shrugged awkwardly out of his shirt and let his trousers pool on the floor at his feet before collapsing into bed, face down in the pillows.

He thought, 'This mattress _doesn't_ have any support,' and buried his face further.

After laying there for an hour, he rolled over and grabbed his laptop. The psychologist had said to try a blog, maybe, to get his feelings out.

After staring at the screensaver for 20 minutes, he closed it and set it down again.

At 2 pm the doorbell rang.

Robotic, John stood up and limped to get his dressing gown.

Pains shot up his leg as he moved, and his scowl grew deeper. He didn't notice his shoulder or the remnants of bruises from his fall. He didn't notice not noticing them, either.

The doorbell rang again, and he hoped it was a delivery or something and not his neighbor. She was a sweet girl, Sarah, always trying to look out for him, but he doubted he could speak to her without snapping at the moment.

He had scarcely opened the door when a tall, thin figure pressed past him into the flat.

"You knew we had an appointment; I don't see why it took you so long to get to the door. Please, John, do try to pay attention."

John was almost startled enough to forget the pain in his leg. Almost.

He started out furious, "What do you mean we had an appointment?!" but at some point the anger drained out of his voice. "How did you even find out where I live? You aren't authorized to view my files."

He was too hollow to fight. He limped over to a chair and crumpled into it, small and tired.

Sherlock walked around, examining the flat as he spoke. "Well, your neighbor drove you here in a car-- presumably hers-- but you took a cab back, and you didn't bring any bags when you came. Your hands aren't calloused, and judging by your reluctance to move, you have your groceries brought to you. You're also depressed. With the abundance of evidence, it was simple to figure it out."

Sherlock turned back, expectant, to John, whose face had fallen completely. He was too exhausted for this, too exhausted to even think about dealing with the obviously mentally unstable giant in his living room.

"So you've looked through my files, then. I'm not sure why you're here; my psychologist is perfectly acceptable, as is my physical therapist, so I don't need any of your services. I'm grateful for your enthusiasm, but I've just gotten back from the hospital. I'm too tired to offer tea and biscuits, and would just like to be left alone right now, so if you don't mind..." His voice managed a bit of a sarcastic bite, and John was grateful.

Sherlock gave him what was probably supposed to be a sympathetic smile. It was textbook genuine, but something felt off about it. "I'm sorry, and I promise we'll be done quickly. I'm just checking up to make sure you're doing your exercises."

"I am an adult, and a doctor. I can handle my own exercises." Something in John was determined to build up enough energy to yell, no matter how long it took, and his voice grew just slightly louder and harsher.

"Can you? Because you haven't been." The pretense of caring was gone, and Sherlock only looked cold now.

"I don't know what you're playing at, but--"

"--but you want to be the same Nice, Fit John who everyone likes, and no one pities the way you were before." Sherlock's voice grew icy.

"Well, I'm sorry, but that John left as soon as you went to war and got yourself shot. Now people pity you and you don't know how to make them stop, so you just join in and pity yourself. Then you get angry, take it out on everyone around you, and they hate you, so you pity yourself more and 'round and 'round it goes until you're here, alienating everyone who tries to help you and making yourself worse. Your leg is fine, your shoulder just needs stretching, and your fall barely injured you at all. The problem, Mr. Watson, is in your mind, and until you accept that, you're going to be stuck here with me. I don't give up on cases, so if you'd like to get rid of me, I suggest you try a little realism."

With that, he stood and straightened his coat. John opened his mouth as though to speak.

"Same time tomorrow, then," and with a flare of his coat, he walked out of the flat.

\---

John ended up falling asleep on the sofa in front of some crappy, late-night television program.

He doesn't bother getting up in the morning, and instead opts to watch crappy daytime television programs.

He's still there when Sherlock delivers on his promise. It isn't that he expected Sherlock wouldn’t come; he knew better now. Rather, he’d forgotten about life or existence beyond his living room.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose when he saw John (“You haven’t even the decency to shower for guests?”) and forced his way into the flat once again.

John told himself that his bad shoulder was the only reason Sherlock could press past him.

It wasn’t till he heard the “thump” of the suitcase on the ground that he realized Sherlock had brought something with him.

“You have a suitcase?” His voice was foggy, as though he’d just woken.

Sherlock was already in the kitchen. “Are you always this dense, or are you making a special effort today?”

Even from a distance, his voice was cutting. John listened to him rummage about for a few seconds before limping toward the kitchen.

“What are you doing with my things? Why are you in my flat? What gives you the right to think you can just move in and insult me and do whatever you want?”

Sherlock paused his rifling in the cabinets. The look on his face was decidedly neutral, but John could have sworn that a hint of sick enjoyment hid in his eyes. “You haven’t stopped me.”

He turned back to the cabinets. John went over to him and grabbed his arm, swinging him back around so that they were facing each other.

Sherlock couldn’t keep the smirk off of his face. John couldn’t keep his fist off of Sherlock’s smirk.

Sherlock was a bit larger than John, but might as well have been full of fluff for how easily he went down. John shook out his fist and his face crumpled into something that was almost a sneer when he saw that Sherlock still had a grin plastered on.

“I don’t know if you’re doing this because you get off on it, or just because you’re a prick, but I want you to get out of my flat right now.” John’s voice was steady and calm.

“Not bad for someone who hasn’t done their exercises. You could probably develop a full range of motion in a couple of weeks.” Sherlock’s tone was disinterested and somewhat muffled by the hand he’d brought up to his bruising cheekbone. Still, his pleasure was poorly hid.

John froze and realized which arm he’d swung.

Sherlock gloated as he pulled himself up from the ground. “I think you’ll find I’ve been very effective. I was called in for a reason, you know. Those others—your physical therapist and your psychologist—they were imbeciles. They wanted to prescribe you medicine. Medicine! As though they could just cure you with a pill. No one pays attention to the _details_ , and they’re horribly obvious. It must be so boring in their funny little brains.”

John’s jaw had dropped slightly, and it was almost comical. “You mean to tell me that you’ve just started a fight with me to prove you’re cleverer than my doctors?”

“I don’t think my relative intelligence was ever in question.”

John stepped to the side, but his leg gave way beneath him. Sherlock caught his elbow just as he caught himself on the kitchen counter. John waited for the inevitable wave of resentment at his leg, at Sherlock, but it didn’t come.

He leaned against the counter and barked out a laugh of surprise. His muscles were still tensed. “Getting me angry enough to punch you...” He shook his head. “How did you know I would punch with my left?”

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Look at the layout of your flat. It’s clear right there, in the placement of your telephone. Even in hospital, the arrangement of your bed and the way you held yourself screamed ‘ambidextrous.’ You’re a military man, and well-trained, so you know how to use both hands in a fight. All I had to do was make sure use of your left would be more advantageous.”

John was not angry. John was actually very, very impressed. He was also slightly irritated at himself for being so impressed. He was more irritated when his thoughts accidentally slipped out of his mouth.

“That is… amazing.”

Sherlock took a break from being pleased with himself to actually look at John. “Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."

Sherlock’s smile returned, more private this time. “That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

John laughed again. He’d relaxed a bit more, and the lunatic who’d barged into his flat was beginning to seem human. “I don’t blame them. You started an argument with me when I was in hospital and didn’t know you from Adam, and then you broke into my flat _twice_.”

“You opened the door.” Sherlock wasn’t defensive. He stated everything as fact.

John stared at the ground and contemplated that for a moment, a soft smile on his face.

Sherlock watched him intently, as though trying to decide whether or not he’d said something wrong.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did,” John said, lifting his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

It could have been a "moment," but it wasn’t. After just under three seconds, Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Well, now you’ve realized you aren’t completely useless.” Sherlock walked back out of the kitchen, and John followed.

He picked up the suitcase he’d brought in. “We won’t be needing such drastic measures, but there is still work to be done. I’ll be dropping by tomorrow. Same time.”

At some point while he was retrieving his suitcase, Sherlock must have remembered that he didn’t smile and rearranged his expression accordingly.

“Well now I know not to open the door.” Sherlock’s expression stayed disinterested, but John could’ve sworn he saw a traitor twitch trying to become a smile. Then again, it might have been the light.

Sherlock moved toward the door. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. Get dressed tomorrow. I know a good Chinese place just down the street. Thought we'd take a nice jog down and grab lunch.”

He was out of the flat before John could reply.

\----

John slept in his bed that night.

He woke up at 8 am and did his exercises.

Well, some of his exercises.

About halfway through, John’s shoulder was still tight and his leg was aching in an irritating, non-specific way and he had a bit of a headache.

He was entirely prepared to brood for the rest of the day when he walked into the kitchen to make tea.

When he got there, he saw a long, black hair on the floor, near where Sherlock had fallen.

He ended up laughing harder than he had any right to when. (But honestly, who smiles that much when they’re socked in the face? He could have broken a cheekbone. Why is the thought of broken cheekbones so hilarious?)

After he caught his breath, John made the tea. Then John ate some cereal and watched some telly.

He barely sulked at all. He only frowned a little when he limped to the bathroom. When they did the Middle East segment on the news, he just changed the channel to something Shakespearean with Jeremy Brett. He almost felt peppy.

At noon he got dressed. He didn’t care to think about how long it had been since he’d worn proper trousers. They felt odd, uncomfortable and surprisingly satisfying.

He was prepared when the doorbell rang. He would have let Sherlock in willingly, but Sherlock stayed outside of the door.

“Are we going straight there, then?” John grabbed his cane and coat.

“Why do you have a cane? Put that down; you don’t need that.”

John obliged. “Do you want some tea before we go, or--?”

“John, stop stalling and put your coat on.”

Sherlock swirled out of the apartment, and John followed, a not-really-hidden-at-all smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> The title was given to me by anon, likely inspired by when I mentioned I have a crippling fear of butterflies.
> 
> Really, though, it's very serious and they are terrifying.


End file.
